“Ellen Prescott was one of Mother’s dearest friends,” Mrs. Bartlett continued. “Lisa was a bit of a brat. I know it sounds harsh to say, but it’s true. I took care of her a few times when our parents went out for the evening. Lisa was sharp as a tack and had a mind of her own.” She turned to Mrs. Fairmont. “Do you remember the time she unlocked the front door of their house and ran out to the sidewalk to hitchhike a ride to the ice-cream shop? I don’t know where she got the idea that a young girl could ask a stranger for a ride. I ran out and grabbed her, of course. Later, when I heard that she didn’t come home one afternoon, the first thought in my mind was about her running to the sidewalk and sticking out her thumb like a homeless person.”
“How long before she vanished did that happen?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. It couldn’t have been more than a year or so.”
“Do you remember anything else?”
“There were all kinds of wild rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?” I asked.
“Some I wouldn’t want to repeat, but we almost had a race riot when some vigilantes marched into the black district and started searching houses.”
“Why did they do that?”
“It was a sign of the times. Anytime a white girl disappeared, there were people who immediately blamed the black population. When the police didn’t come up with a suspect, low-class troublemakers would take to the streets and try to find a scapegoat.”
“The Ku Klux Klan?”
“No, they didn’t try to cover their faces. The KKK wasn’t around much when I was a child.”
“Did they have a particular person in mind?”
Mrs. Bartlett rolled her eyes. “Don’t expect me to remember details like that. It was a mob. My father locked the doors and turned out the lights when they came by our house. My bedroom was upstairs. I peeked outside and saw that some of the men were carrying guns. I’m surprised you didn’t see an article about it in the newspaper. Do you remember that night, Mother?”
“Yes. It was scary.”
“And there wasn’t a particular black man who was a suspect?” I asked.
Mrs. Bartlett studied me for a moment. “Do you have a name? Mother and I have lived here all our lives. Between us, we’ve known a lot of people of every color under the sun.”
“I can’t say.”
“Attorney/client privilege?”
“I can’t answer that either.”
“Do you hear this, Mother?” Mrs. Bartlett said. “Tami has found out something about Lisa Prescott after all these years. Does the newspaper know you’re conducting an investigation?”
“No!” I said. “And please don’t mention this to anyone.”
“I’m not subject to any rules of confidentiality.” Mrs. Bartlett sniffed. “This is hot news for anyone who has been in Savannah for a long time.”
I gave Mrs. Fairmont an imploring look.
“Don’t give the girl a heart attack,” Mrs. Fairmont said. “If you spread this around town, she could get in trouble.”
“That’s right,” I added. “I could lose my job.”
Mrs. Bartlett appeared skeptical. “Okay, but I have to mention it to Ken. I’m sure he remembers the Lisa Prescott mystery.”
“Will you ask him not to say anything?” I asked.
“Of course. Don’t panic. Anyway, hasn’t the statute of limitations run out on that case?”
I didn’t respond.
“Well?” she repeated.
I looked directly in her eyes. “There is no statute of limitations for murder.”
MRS. BARTLETT DIDN’T STAY for supper. After she left, Mrs. Fairmont joined me in the kitchen while I warmed up leftovers from Gracie’s Sunday dinner.
“Do you think Mrs. Bartlett will keep quiet about my interest in the Prescott case?” I asked as I stirred the black-eyed peas.
“I never could bridle Christine’s tongue,” the older woman said. “I’d be surprised if you have any success either.”
After we ate, Mrs. Fairmont returned to the den to read magazines. She would read the same ones over and over. She’d tell about articles that piqued her interest, not realizing that she’d mentioned the same piece a few days before. After listening for the third time in a week to new ideas for Savannah-area flower gardens, I excused myself to call home. Mama answered the phone.
“It’s me,” I began.
“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately.
“How do you know something is wrong?” I asked.
“I’m your mother. I could tell what was the matter by the way you cried as a baby.”